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“There was a terrible accident, Mrs. Steele,” Carson says softly, but his voice wavers. “He… he should get to the airport as soon as possible. I’ve contacted his siblings and have the jet on the way here to pick all but Naomi up to bring them to New York, so they can get to the hospital.”
“What happened?” I ask.
“His parents were in a terrible car accident in New York.”
“How terrible?” I ask.
Derek is just hunched over. It’s bad. Really bad.
What Carson says next has me shocked. So shook, I find myself putting my hand on Derek’s back.
“Mrs. Steele died on scene. Mr. Steele has been in surgery for a couple of hours already. The hospital staff says it doesn’t look good.”
“Oh God,” I whisper.
“Can you help by getting him to the family jet? I’ll send you the details by text message.”
“Yes,” I say. “I’ll do that. And if there’s anything else I can help with, please call me or text me.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Steele.”
“Chloe,” I correct softly. Even though he told me before that he wouldn’t be able to call me Chloe.
But he answers with, “Thank you, Chloe.”
I press end and climb over to sit beside Derek, who’s got his face in his hands, still.
“I’m so sorry about your mom,” I whisper.
He lifts his head a little bit and scratches his stubbled jaw on both sides, staring straight ahead.
“I can drive you to the airport,” I tell him, putting my hand on his back again, rubbing it with my palm.
He flinches as if it hurts or something like that and gets up. He walks into the bathroom and shuts the door.
I swallow down a lump of sadness and feeling my bladder nag at me, throw my robe on, grab a pair of underwear from the closet, and go down the hall to another bathroom.
Trying to ignore the bruised feeling between my legs as well as on my breasts, I also notice I’m still bleeding, though only lightly, but I might have ruined the sheets. He’s still in the bathroom where my pads and tampons are so I stuff a wad of Kleenex into my underwear, then begin throwing a bag together with a change of clothes for each of us. Jeans for each. Sweatshirts. T-shirts. Socks and underwear. I pull on a bra, then a pair of yoga pants, a tank top and a hoodie. As my head emerges from the hoodie, I see he’s come out of the bathroom and is pulling on clean underwear and then he pulls a dress shirt suit off a hanger.
I go to the bathroom and fix my period situation, grab some tampons and toss them into my toiletries bag, then zip to the bathroom down the hall to grab his shaving stuff, his deodorant and hair brush, and meet him back in the bedroom.
He looks at the bag.
“In case we need to be there overnight.” I say, quickly pulling his brush through my hair, before dropping it into his bag.
He shakes his head, staring at me with a look of confusion. “You don’t have to come.”
“You shouldn’t drive, Derek. You’ve just had terrible news; it’s not safe to drive when you’re upset. And…” I stop for a second and ask, “Do you want me to come with you?”
He’s frowning. And I know he’s in shock but the series of frowns on his face is painful to watch. It’s like I’m watching his thoughts crumble one by one. He’s breathing hard as he grabs a pair of socks from the drawer, looking like he’s ready to blow his top for a second as he pulls them on before his expression changes again to one of confusion. “You don’t have to come,” he repeats, squatting and grabbing a pair of brown dress shoes from the closet, dropping them and getting them on. He moves toward the door, carrying his blazer.
“You shouldn’t drive. You’re upset,” I call.
He pauses and looks over his shoulder at me.
I’m getting into a pair of sneakers. “I’ll come,” I tell him. “I’ll drive.”
I grab my phone and charger and put them into the bag and zip it up, grab my coat and put it on, then lift the bag I packed and jog down the stairs. I catch up to him when he’s almost to his SUV.
